


Settle a Bet

by SapphoIsBurning



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Canon-related discussion of scat, Comeplay, Humor, M/M, Operation P.R.O.M., Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/pseuds/SapphoIsBurning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shore Leave and the Alchemist are determined to figure out what a Rusty Venture really is. Never has a sex act been more elusive or mysterious. But they have never been more determined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle a Bet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_Terra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Terra/gifts).



“A _Rusty Venture is when you run your fingers around a guy's asshole while you pull the guy off into his own face,” said the Alchemist matter of factly._

_“No way. A Rusty Venture's when you sixty-nine and fill each other's mouth with come, and then you turn around and blow spooge into each other's cracks,” Shore Leave insisted._

_“That's not a Rusty Venture, that's a snake venom,” countered Al._

_"I swear, this is not over until one of us gets a Rusty Venture," Shore Leave vowed._

_"You are so on," Al replied._

But after the excitement of that night, they still hadn't determined what a Rusty Venture was. Al was feeling down from having done not much more than turn Molotov Cocktease's back wheels to gold, and Shore Leave was unsettled about the status of O.S.I and SPHINX.

"I am not giving you a snake venom and calling it a Rusty Venture! I just won't," swore Al.

"I am going to make you come all over your little tonsure and you are going to love it, but it still won't be a Rusty Venture," Shore Leave shot back.

"You don't have to be mean about it."

"Don't I?"

"We just need to do more research," Al insisted, and eventually, Shore Leave agreed.

They started by poring over Doctor Orpheus's library, without a lot of success. That library was mostly occult focused, and even with a locating spell that the good doctor provided under duress, most of the references they found were to the actual person Rusty Venture in the context of his adventures in relation to the occult, and nothing related to the 80's casual sex scene in the Castro. They did find one reference in a stack of regional periodicals from someone _soliciting_ a Rusty Venture (repeatedly) in the adult personals, but the ad didn't define what that was. Just that this person really, really wanted one.

Orpheus himself couldn't come up with any more than his daughter found on Urban Dictionary, which was quickly ruled out.

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve shitting all over anyone," Shore Leave insisted. "I was never into that, and I know I've had an R.V. both giving and receiving."

"I tried scat once," Al mused as Dr. Orpheus backed out of the room, wide-eyed. "Never again. This dude I met in Memphis gave me a Cleveland steamer but I was so startled I transmuted the dump to platinum. He let me keep it, though."

"What did you do with it?"

"Do you know the price of platinum? I sold it and paid off my car."

Shore Leave put his arm around Al as they sat together on Orpheus's library settee paging through an oversized hardcover book, a photo history of the gay community on the precipice of AIDS.

"Is that you?" Al asked pointing to a picture of a sailor in a parade.

"Oh god, you know, I think it is? Look, there's Snow Job! And Shipwreck. Great guy but I don't miss that parrot. It shit all over everything and called everyone Carol."

"I've never been much for pets. Had a familiar once but he struck out on his own after a while. Last I heard he ended up in a zoo in Madrid and he's running the place from the inside."

They were quiet after that, sharing space contentedly. Shore Leave nuzzled Al's neck. "Why did we break up?" he asked.

"I literally don't remember. You had my memory wiped, so you say." Al grimaced.

Shore Leave looked contrite. "Party foul. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you. I'm 400 years old. I've got plenty of spare memories."

"Really?"

"What, the forgiveness or the age?"

"Both."

"What can I say. I'm on a century-spanning quest for enlightenment."

"If you stopped shaving your head, would it grow back?"

"I don't know. I've been doing it since about sixteen thirty. It's a lot easier with a Norelco, I tell you what."

"Should we ask Jefferson?"

"Maybe. You wanna call him?"

Shore Leave felt his pockets for his phone. "I don't think you gave it back to me."

"Oh, right."

Al pulled the cell phone out of his sporran. It was an ancient (relatively speaking) flip phone, scratched and battered. He extended the antenna and opened it, hitting some buttons.

"Hey. Settle a bet. What's a Rusty Venture? Hmm? Yes, we're still talking about this. No, that's a Barnaby Collins. Okay, bye."

They tried calling Sky Pilot, who just hung up on them. They fetched Shore Leave's laptop from his bunk at SPHINX and did some googling. Things just got murkier.

"Dude, turn Safe Search off."

"No way," Shore Leave said, "I got a computer virus from a google image search one time."

"Maybe we should try the dark web," suggested Al.

"Unless you're trying to use Bitcoin to buy a 12 year old Tunisian prostitute to _give_ you a Rusty Venture, and you better not be, I don't think that's going to help."

"Indulge me."

Shore Leave handed the laptop to Al. He pulled up Tor and rapidly hit a sequence of keys. A command prompt opened. Al cracked his knuckles and typed in a query.

The cursor blinked and then a single URL appeared on the screen. Al copied it into a browser and up came a website hosting a video clip. Shore Leave narrowed his eyebrows and reached into Al's space to click play.

It was a clip from some kind of documentary. The narrator spoke over a slideshow of photos: "The Rusty Venture fandom grew tremendously in the gay community. In the Castro, "Rusty Venture" parties were popular and Rusty's name itself came to be slang for a kinky sex act involving the exchange of semen. Meanwhile in New York City, the party scene was enjoying a dance remix of Rusty's show's theme song, and a "Rusty Venture" was an advanced handjob technique that could be easily performed in club bathrooms."

They looked at each other.

The documentary cut to a talking head, a linguistics expert from Utah State University. "What a "Rusty Venture" means varies widely, but using corpus analysis we've found the very first use of the term was as slang for anal gonorrhea among members of the US military." Then the clip ended.

"I don't think I want a Rusty Venture anymore," said Shore Leave.

"I would settle for a snake venom," said Al.

"So you'll take me back?"

"I'll take you back somewhere. Well, more like up. I'm renting Triana's old bedroom upstairs. I got evicted from my trailer."

They crept upstairs, toting the laptop, avoiding Dr. Orpheus. Shore Leave shut the bedroom door behind Al.

As soon as they were alone in private, Shore Leave ran his hands up Al's legs, feeling up the inside of his kilt. Al laughed and shivered.

"No surprises here," Shore Leave smirked.

"The only time I've worn anything under a kilt, I was literally smuggling it across a border," said Al, reaching to undo Shore Leave's necktie.

Soon enough, they were fully undressed and kissing each other messily. They tumbled to the bed, hands frantic, jerking at each other, getting hard.

Shore Leave broke the embrace, turning himself one hundred eighty degrees to get in position. He arched his back so Al could reach his dick. "You ready?" he asked.

Al didn't reply, just sucked Shore Leave down, massaging his balls with his free hand. Shore Leave followed suit, grabbing the base of Al's cock, pulling his foreskin back and lapping at the head, working up some saliva, sucking the tip wetly.

The room was quiet except for the hums and grunts of sixty-nine, and Al slapping Shore Leave's ass from time to time. Their sweat mingled as their bodies slid together. The grunting escalated. "Remember, don't swallow!" Shore Leave pulled off to say.

"I know!" Al said around a mouthful of cock.

Soon they were coming in each other's mouths. Holding that salty, bitter mouthful, they reached past each other's balls to blow the load into each other's ass crack.

"Okay, crawl off, this is going to drip right back in my...face," Al said as Shore Leave's come spilled from him.

"Oh, that's a Havana beauty mark!" Shore Leave cried.

"I thought it was a fisherman's goodnight," Al said, using a corner of the pillowcase to wipe his face.

"No, a fisherman's goodnight is if I kissed you and got your own semen on your face," Shore Leave said, turning around and crawling up the bed to face Al. "So...goodnight," he continued, kissing Al messily on the face.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide and thanks for the prompt! It's my headcanon that Al is centuries old, I think, I don't think I got that from the show.


End file.
